The final book is the Sheridan and Blake Adventure series, Gabriel's Game: Part 2: The Black Knight, is out with beta readers at the moment. I'd like to publish it in time for Christmas but realistically I think It's more likely to be in the new year.
This weeks mewsing is a deleted scene from the latest book...
I had a marathon writing session in August to write 30,000 words. I wrote a blog of tips to write a first draft in 30 days here.
Tip 3 'It's okay to take chunks out' was a particularly relevant while I wrote Gabriel's Game because in the original plan for the book, Tom Sheridan was going to call in a favour from a former army mate based at RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus.
The whole sequence of events was an insight into Tom's frame of mind and revealed some of the secrets from his past. However, as I wrote the scenes it all seemed like an unnecessarily complicated way to move the story from one location to another and was a convoluted and contrived way to get Tom and Sasha from Cyprus to Ukraine. It was also unnecessary and created some plot holes that I couldn't rectify sensibly.
It was a tough call as the whole sequence involved a major overhaul of the entire denouement of the Sheridan and Blake series.
In all, I removed about 15,000 words from the manuscript that I then had to replace and rewrite with a completely different angle on the resolution of the mystery of the Democritus Manuscript.
No writing is ever wasted (Tweet this).
I kept the chapters I'd chopped out and re-purposed a few chunks of it in other parts of the story, the rest is languishing in a scrapbook folder to be cannibalised for future writing projects.
In this scene, Tom and Sasha have arrived at RAF Akrotiri and Tom has gone to meet with a former army mate - Lieutenant
Colonel Trefor 'Taffy' Howell-Jones - in a bar close to the base (warning, contains profanity):
“I don’t
think I ever thanked you TJ. Shocker, I know,” said Taffy, his musical Welsh
accent just as prominent as the day they’d met when they were two young lads
with a point to prove. Taffy used to tell stories of growing up on a rough
estate in Splott, Cardiff and how he’d learned to fight - he was a real
scrapper; vicious in hand to hand combat.
He ushered Tom towards the bar.
“Thank me? For what?”
Tom leaned an elbow on the bar,
his suit jacket draped over his arm and looked along the line of shiny chrome
taps. It’d been a long time since he’d had a beer and his mouth watered at the
prospect. A fresh cold lager would be a welcome relief from the dry Cypriot
heat, even at this time of year, the days could be hot, although the evenings
were cooler.
“Oh, you know, just the small
matter of your saving my bloody life and those other lads.”
“Never leave a man behind – you’d
have done the same for me.”
“Would I?” a sly smile snuck
along his ruddy brown face, the jagged scar down his left cheek from that day,
more obvious when he smiled, the wrinkling of it at odds with the rest of the
grooves on his careworn face.
Taffy ran his fingers through his
light brown hair, “Let me at least buy you a beer, mate?”
Tom thanked him, chose a beer and
they waited to be served.
“I’ll bring it over!” said the
barman.
Taffy thanked the young man, who
barely looked old enough to be serving behind a bar, and gestured to a rickety
table and mismatched chairs in the window.
Tom took a seat and neatly hung
his jacket around the back of it. Taffy got comfortable opposite. Taffy hadn't changed much. Out of uniform; he was wearing short beige trousers and
a salmon pink polo shirt. A deep set tan from years of living and working in
one of the warmest parts of the Mediterranean emphasised the few wrinkles he did have. He
still had a thick head of brown hair, with only a light dusting of white, worn
cropped close at the sides and longer on top, a floppy section of unruly hair
fell onto his forehead and he swept it back as he settled in the chair.
Outside, the sky was clear with a
pink sheen to it as twilight loomed. The window overlooked an asphalt road with
ribbons of sandy dust dancing along its surface, like seams of gold where they
picked up the low sunlight. Their flow periodically interrupted by military
vehicles rumbling along.
Taffy jabbed a thick thumb with a
gnawed down nail in the direction of the barman, "That’s Hammer’s kid.” He took
a sip from his sweating beer.
“Hammer? You mean Tony Hamlin is
here too?”
Tom, took a long drink, enjoying the sensation of chilled beer
sliding down the parched corridor of his throat. He sat back and let out a
refreshed sigh.
Hammer had been a wiry, spotty,
brummy who could run fast, wasn’t the brightest but he was loyal and would do
anything for his mates. It’d be good to see how he’d changed over the years.
And a kid? That was unexpected.
As he sipped his drink he thought
back to those days; realising it was almost 20 years ago, he felt old.
“So anyone else here I’d know?”
“Perhaps. When I was promoted I
told the bosses I wanted to assemble the best team I could. Akrotiri has grown
in strategic importance in recent years as a Forward Operating Base for Allied
Forces. We’re at the intersection of three theatres of war; North Africa, the
Middle East and Ukraine. I put in transfer requests for several of the old
crew. Had you still been around, I’d have got a you a gig here too, mate.”
“Working for you? Jesus,” he
shook his head, chuckling, “If I’d stuck around you’d be working for me!”
“Funny man! You’re still a wanker
then?” Taffy held his glass up and they clinked their drinks together, laughing
softly.
“The biggest!”
“And still far too self-effacing.
You were a good soldier, you’d have been a great and well respected officer
too.”
“Thanks. I guess we’ll never
know.”
A gloomy look crossed Taffy’s
face, “Harkett screwed you on that prisoner exchange. All the lads would have
backed you up, TJ, you did the right thing.”
“Did I? What about Egypt?”
“Hey, you can’t blame yourself
for the actions of some sick jihadist. If it hadn’t been him it would have been
some other kid brainwashed by extremists. There’s no evidence that he had any
such plans when we had him. Besides, I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t done what
you did. It just galls me that The Libyan; that bastard who captured me and
those five other lads - tortured some of them - is still at large.”
Taffy snarled at the thought of
The Libyan and pushed some damp strands of hair up his forehead.
Tom was yet to find the courage
to tell Sasha what The Libyan had done to him. Now he had a unique perspective
on what those British soldiers had been through back in ‘96. He wasn’t about to
admit his weakness to Taffy and Taffy hadn’t disclosed that he’d been tortured
himself; but he never did find out how he got the wound on his face. When Tom
had made that deal and got his team released, Taffy had hobbled out barely
conscious and he’d put a field dressing on the bloody gash across his cheek. At
the time, Taffy fobbed him off, telling him he got the wound in a fight, but
something in the look in Taffy’s eyes now, told him differently.
It had been an impossible choice
– but he honoured an oath to his team; never leave a man behind - and
definitely not six of them. A choice that set him on this course.
Did he regret it? He’d asked himself
that question many times; but if he had his time again, he’d have done the same
thing; so the answer had to be no; even though he’d destroyed his own
career and future as a consequence.
“What’s done is done,” he
shrugged, “And Milton Harkett has owned my arse ever since.”
The feeling of worthlessness
pervading his every thought crept to the surface.
Taffy clenched his hand so
tightly around his glass it looked like he’d shatter it, as if he were
imagining Milton’s neck.
“Harkett is a manipulative bastard. Until he’d done
that to you, we’d all respected the guy.”
He’d never realised quite how
passionately Taffy had felt about what had happened. He’d underestimated the
middle aged man sat in front of him, who’d been his right hand man all those
years back.
“If he hadn’t covered up what I
did, I’d have been Court Marshalled and banged up for it.”
“No, mate. Milton had no right to
make that choice for you. Sure, it may have gone to Court Marshall, but we’d
all have backed you up. If Milton had come clean from the start, I reckon you’d
have got away with a slap on the wrist.”
“I was stupid and naïve back
then. He was my CO, I was scared, you know?’” he grinned mirthlessly, shook his
head, disgusted with himself and knocked back some beer.
“You give that miserable bastard
too much credit. Truth be told, he saw an opportunity to exploit you at your
weakest so you’d help him with his new pet project. That was how he operated.
Makes you wonder what dirt he had on the officers above him to get promoted so
fast through the ranks?”
Taffy’s eyes widened at him as he
sipped his beer.
Tom thought about it for a
moment, his brow descending.
“I have a chance to get out. But
we need your help.”
“Gabriel Fletcher filled me in on
some of the details, and told me you’d fill in the blanks. So how does this
work?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve met Fletcher a few times.
He seems sound enough. He’s well known around here; a rich local businessman.
Apparently he went to school with the previous base commander. He was seeing
Tilda for a while too.”
“Tilda?”
“She manages the admin team here
in Episkopi. So what about Milton and his Agency? Are you working for Gabriel
now?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You always have been an evasive
bastard, TJ.”
He chuckled and drained the rest
of his beer, “Yeah, so I’ve been told.”
Taffy gave him a suspicious look,
his voice deepening, as deep as his Welsh lilt would allow, “Are you asking me
to help The Agency, by helping you?”
“No. This isn’t an Agency op.
It’s my op, with Fletcher’s backing. If I do this, if I can find that
manuscript I can make a deal with Milton.”
Taffy leaned across the table,
frustration making him tremble, “TJ, are you talking about going up against
Milton? What, do you have some sort of a death wish?”
Beads of spittle collected along
his lips as he said it.
Tom shook his head and offered a
reassuring smile. Taffy sat up straight.
The young barman came over and
picked up their empties.
“Hey, Will,” Taffy said to the
tall lean lad; Tom could see the family resemblance to Hammer, “I want you to
meet someone.”
“Sir?”
Taffy laughed and wrinkled his
nose at Tom.
“I love this kid. He’s not even
enlisted and as far as I know, has no intention of,” he cast a look at the boy.
“No, sir. I’ve got a place at
university to start teacher training next year.”
“Good lad,” he gripped the boys
arm affectionately. “But, he’s so used to everyone calling me ‘sir’, he does it
himself.” He let go of the boy and gestured across the table.
“So Will, this is
Thomas John Sheridan, he used to serve with your father and I back in Germany.
Known to his mates as TJ. This man saved my life, and your dad’s. You’d never
have been born if this guy hadn’t have done what he did in Croatia.”
Taffy winked at Tom and Will put
the tray of glasses down and smiled at him. The attention made him
uncomfortable. He had no desire to be a hero to this boy; he was no role model.
Will held a hand out. He hesitated, looked at the lads long bony fingers, he
even carried himself like his father, then shook, looking into the lads warm
coppery eyes.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,
sir.”
“Please. I’m not a sir. No one
calls me Thomas and TJ’s a name from my past; Tom is fine.”
“Does dad know you’re here?” A
brightness lifted his tone when he spoke of his father. Will clearly had a lot
of love and respect for Hammer.
Tom looked at Taffy for an
answer; who shrugged, “I doubt it. We’ll catch up with him later.”
He liked the idea of connecting
with old friends. Since he was forced to leave the Army, he’d led a lonely
existence – until he met Sasha.
Sasha; he found himself wondering what she was up to right now.
“Can I get you another drink,
sirs?”
Taffy laughed, “There he goes
again.” He punched Will on the bicep and the boy winced, "such a good lad.”
He looked to Tom, who glanced at
his watch and said, “We’ve still got a lot to talk about. Are you staying for
another?”
“Why the bloody hell not. Yes
please. Will, add it to my tab.” Taffy grinned, a gold tooth towards the back
of his mouth glinting.
Tom reached into his trouser
pocket for his wallet, “I can get these.”
Taffy held a hand up, his face
stern, “No TJ, you’re the guest here. And a very welcome one. Allow me.”
He thanked him and they both
thanked Will as he left their table with their empty glasses.
As soon as he was out of earshot,
Taffy resumed his questions.
“So come on, you wanker. Start
talking. What’s all this about and was that gorgeous blonde you arrived with Dr
Blake?”
“Behave,” he wagged a finger at
Taffy, “She’s with me.”
“Beautiful and clever. How did
you wangle that one? Well, she can examine me any time she likes.”
He threw Taffy a warning look and
he chuckled in response.
“Okay,” he held his hands up, “I
get it!”
“So what about you, Taff? Not
married then?”
“Me? Sure. Married a fantastic
Croatian girl, Marta. Our 15th anniversary his year. Love her to
pieces,” he prodded Tom on the arm, “I was only ribbing you about you’re girl.”
Will delivered two more cold
glasses of beer to their table, they paused to thank him and resumed the
conversation.
“Kids?” asked Tom.
“Bloody Nora, no! We breed
Beagles though. The pups keep us busy. Stop avoiding the subject.”
“Would I?” said Tom, affecting an innocent
tone.
They both laughed a little and
sipped at their beers simultaneously.
Taffy looked up, swiped hair from
his forehead and examined his stubby fingers nails for moment, as if he was
preparing to say something important, “You know, TJ. I could use you. Have you
heard the latest about IS militants in North Africa?”
“What’s that?”
"They’re deliberately destroying world
heritage sites. Claiming they promote
idolatry, although there are reports of them selling looted artefacts to fund
their operations. Artefacts from cultural sites in Syria and Iraq have started
turning up on bloody eBay! While you’re faffing about looking for some old book
IS are wiping history from the map. I could use a man of your talents.”
“At my age? Besides, Assyrian and
Babylonian cultures aren’t my specialty.”
“I wasn’t suggesting putting you on the front
line. I meant in an advisory capacity. I could easily get you heading up an
intel task force. There have already been calls from NATO countries for
military intervention, the claim being that ‘cultural cleansing’ is an act of
war. If they get their way, I need to be ahead of the curve on what’s being
destroyed and what needs to be saved. Even if we don’t get UN approval to take
up arms to protect those sites, scientists from Oxford and Harvard universities
want to catalogue buildings and artefacts of historical significance,
preserving knowledge before it’s obliterated. As most of these sites are UNESCO
World Heritage sites, there’s an argument that the UN has a duty of care to
protect and assist such a project, and that’s going to need some good intel from our end so we can make best use of our
troops, should they need to be deployed. I need help to set something like that
up. And I’m sure we could negotiate a compensation package good enough to keep
you in those nice suits!”
Taffy paused, winked and nodded
his beer at him, “I mean it TJ.”
“I’ll think about it. But I tell
you one thing I could help you with?” Tom sipped a section of the white froth
from his beer and locked eyes with Taffy over his glass.
Reading the sincerity in his
eyes, Taffy set his drink aside and folded his hands on the table top.
“Have you got some intel on
something?”
“The Libyan.”
“Don’t piss about. We’ve been
looking for that bastard for years, he was on the American’s card deck of most
wanted terrorists. And you’ve got a credible location on him now? Who’s your
source?”
“I am.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Taffy leaned closer, lowering his voice. He cast furtive glances around the
room to make sure no one could be listening. The bar was almost empty and no
one was within earshot but he was behaving on instinct, “What do you have?”
Find the Sheridan and Blake Adventure Series books here:
The Bronze Box
Solomon's Secrets
Gabriel's Game, part 1: The White Queen
